Daddy Issues
by samchandler1986
Summary: What the hell is a father figure, anyway?


"So, explain to me," he shouts, "just what in the _fuck_ you were trying to do?"

"What you asked me to!" Justine shouts back, every bit as angry. "Location shooting. We were just doing a segment—"

" _Here_? What on? Fucking crack-heads and coke whores?"

"It was a bad girls segment, we wanted it to look real!"

"You _idiots_ ," he snarls. "This isn't _Miami_ fucking _Vice_!" He rounds on Jenny and Arthie. "And seriously, not one of you had the brains to think this was a bad idea?" Arthie visibly flinches away from his accusatory finger. Somehow this only makes him angrier. "Stop it," he snaps. "What, you think I'm going to hit you? Is that what you think?"

" _Jesus_ Sam," Juatine snaps, "can you pull your head out of your ass for five minutes, and stop being such a bully. It was scary, okay? They came through the alley on motorbikes, they knocked me over, and then they took the camera."

"I'm not a bully," he snaps back, "I'm just… That camera is expensive, right. You _get_ that?"

"Yeah, Sam, we get it," Arthie sighs, like _he's_ missed the point.

"Look," he tries, "just – just get in the car and I'll drive you back to the gym."

Arthie complies instantly, head down, but Jenny hesitates before closing the car door. "Justine's fine, by the way," she says, scathing.

He looks back at his daughter, fists still balled, chin up. She's known him less than three months but he recognises that fighter's stance. Genetics has a lot to answer for. "Are you?" he tries.

"Am I what?"

"Okay?"

She's shaking slightly with adrenalin, and now the red mist is clearing he can see her knees and palms are bleeding.

"Yeah," she scoffs. "I'll be fine."

"I'm sorry," he tries.

"I don't care," she snaps back.

"I should have—"

"Yeah, you should have. But you didn't." She shakes her head. "It's fine. I don't expect that from you."

Which is good, because _I never asked for this_ , he wants to shout, to _scream_ at the world. "Look, I'm still learning when it comes to this father figure shit, okay?" he says instead

"No," she scowls, "this is you still working on your being-a-decent-human-being shit."

"Well, you know, we've all got some work to do on that score—"

"Just, just drive us back. Okay? That's all we need. Jesus."

It's not the first drive he's endured in angry silence, though it might be a new record to have _three_ women smouldering with rage in the car with him. Arthie and Jenny jump out without a word when they crunch to halt at the gym.

"Just, just wait a second," he says to Justine as she unclicks her own seatbelt.

"I don't want to talk to you."

"Yeah well, I'm still your boss," he snaps, hating himself for using the trump card even as the words jump out of his mouth. "And your Dad. So just, sit for a second."

She folds her arms, but does as he demands. Silence balloons as he tries to line up his thoughts. "You're not my dad," she says bitterly, before he's got a handle on where to even begin.

"What? What do you mean?"

"I mean, biologically, you are. Don't get your hopes up. But you're not my Dad. I don't have a Dad. Beginning to understand why I didn't need one."

He rolls his eyes. "That's bullshit and you know it."

"Look. You never wanted me, I get it. It's fine. Can I _go_ now?"

" _No_ , I'm not—I haven't—" He swallows the rising hysteria and tries again. "Look, you're right. I never wanted kids. But that doesn't mean that I don't want this to work."

"What does _that_ mean?" Her hand is on the door handle.

"It means I know what it's like, okay?" he shouts, ignoring her flinch. "I've sat where you are, I'm _still_ sitting where you are! Knowing that Dad didn't want—" His voice cracks. "Fuck. I'm just saying I know how shit it is to think you ruined your parents lives. And I don't want you to feel that way. Okay? It's not true, for you anyway. Your Mom wanted you. And I…I want to be a part of your life now too."

The silence is deeper, darker this time. "Right," she says eventually, flat. "Fine. Can I go now?"

Whatever he was expecting her to say, that wasn't it. "Yeah," he says. "Go." He keeps staring at the gym wall as her footsteps recede, resisting the urge to collapse on his steering wheel like a marionette with all the strings cut.

* * *

 _Under the tent of blankets, ten little tin soldiers line up. "It's going to be tough old chum," says the commander, "between us and Berlin are_ _—_ _"_

 _The crash and thump of a table turning over, of smashing glass, disrupts his narrative torn from the screen of the nickelodeon. "I can't_ believe _you!" shouts his mother._

 _He clicks off the flashlight, plunging his blanket cave into darkness. His father's response is a low rumble, words impossible to distinguish. Crunch, smash. The door of the trailer slamming._

 _Good. Everyone can hear them when they go at it like this. It's embarrassing._

 _He kicks his tin soldiers onto the floor, wrapping the lumpy pillow around his ears so he doesn't have to hear his mother's quiet sobs through the thin walls. He closes his eyes_ _—_

And forty-two years and several hundred miles away, he opens them. He has fallen into something like sleep on his sofa. Something _like_ sleep, because sleep doesn't normally leave his head feeling like someone has poured glue into it. A bottle clinks guiltily when he moves.

"Sam?" calls someone. It takes him a moment to realise it's not his mother's voice calling across the void of four decades.

"In a minute!" he calls. At least that's the intent. What actually comes out of his mouth is something more like the sounds the walking carpet thing makes in that fucking movie the kids all love. Pants, pants. Pants are important, he thinks, as he struggles to find some.

It's not a surprise to eventually find Ruth at the door. She has a knack for turning up at moments like this. "I bought coffee," she says, thrusting a Styrofoam cup at him. "And donuts."

"Why?"

"Because we're supposed to go to the Patio Town opening in Thousand Oaks, and if we aren't driving in twenty minutes we're not going to be there."

"Fuck," he says. "Alright."

"No, Sam," she says, but softly. Like he is a puppy that, despite repeated efforts, persists in leaving damp patches on the carpet. It's not great, but it's better than screaming. "Not alright. You need to brush your teeth, shave, and change your shirt. In that order." She takes a step back and gives him another appraisal. "And, um, do your pants up properly. For my sake."

He is halfway through instruction one when she pipes up again, shouting through from the sofa. "You talk to Justine yet?"

"No," he manages, though a mouthful of minty foam.

"You should."

He rinses with water from the faucet, spits. "I don't think I have anything else to say." He decides to forgo instruction two; the stubble is kind of working for him in _A Fistful of Dollars_ kind of way. He wanders back towards his bedroom and pulls out a shirt. Stares at it blearily for a moment.

"Is that what you're going for?" she says, appearing at his shoulder.

"Can't a man have a little privacy?" he grouses. "And yeah. What's wrong with it?"

She shrugs. "I mean, nineteen-seventy-nine probably wants it back, but apart from that…"

"Alright, alright." He considers his options. "What about that one?"

"Looks good to me."

"Well gee thanks Anna Wintour." He blinks. "Can you go… stand somewhere… out of sight?"

She does as instructed, to his relief, although he's unsure about her grin. "You wander into our changing room all the time," she says.

"That's different," he says, fumbling with the buttons.

"How so?"

"I'm the director. I'm not some sort of pervert." He thinks he hears a noise of dissent. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing. I didn't say anything."

" _Good_." He emerges from the bedroom. "Better?"

"Much." She tosses the bag of donuts at him. "I'm going to drive," she announces.

"No, come on." Her car is beyond shitty. "We won't even make it out there in—"

"I said I'd _drive_. I didn't say which car." She fishes his keys out from the shelf near the door. "You good to go?"

"No," he says, pointlessly, grabbing his sunglasses as they head into the far-too-bright light of day.

He digs into the bag once he is ensconced in the passenger seat. Pink frosted and a plain sugar. He takes the plain, carbohydrate hitting his stomach like the elixir of the Gods.

"She's upset," continues Ruth. The just-about-functioning parts of his brain try to assemble the clues – there are any number of women in his life likely to be upset with him at any given moment.

"Justine?"

She gives him a look, the kind she reserves for when he's being especially dim. "Yes, Justine. Who else have you been pissing off?"

"Take your pick," he mutters. "Look, I tried to explain—"

"Yeah, well whatever you said it didn't work."

He takes another bite of donut rather than reply in anger, waiting for his temper to subside. "It's not like there's a manual for this," he says eventually. And I didn't exactly have the greatest role model, he adds, in the privacy of his own head. A thought occurs. "Hey, what's your old man like?"

" _My_ dad?" she repeats, incredulous. "Well, I mean he's… He's fine."

"He's a high school teacher, right?"

"Right." She gives him a sideways look.

"What?"

"No, you just… the way you say it…"

"I don't have a problem with that. Do you think I have a problem with that? Nothing wrong with teaching."

She sighs, indicating to pull onto the highway. "…Yeah."

"Oh, see now, there you go. _That's_ a loaded statement. I don't have a problem with teaching, but _you_ do."

"No, no, it's a noble profession…"

"But…?" he prompts.

She shrugs, as she accelerates up to speed, deciding how far she trusts him, he supposes. "I just don't want to end up teaching drama to bored high schoolers because the whole actress thing didn't pan out. You know? Dad's _great_ , he's-he's very supportive. God knows I've had to rely on him more times than I'd like to make rent since I moved out here…"

"But he thinks it's time to give up on this whole acting schtick and move back to Omaha, huh?"

She gives him another look. "Nice try, Detective, but I'm not from Omaha. I just worked there."

"Iowa, right?"

She rolls her eyes, but admits defeat. "… Maybe."

"I knew it."

"What? How?"

"The way you flinched when Bash called you a farmer's daughter."

"Ha!"

He presses on. "But your parents are… they're supportive? They… say the right things?"

"Yeah, yeah. They came to see me in plays and told me I did good, that sort of thing. Are you, what, looking for tips?"

"Maybe."

A beat of silence. " _Stop_ staring at me."

"I'm not staring-I was just-I was thinking and—"

"Uh-huh," she says, not fooled. "You were thinking, how'd she get this fucked up if her parents are normal and supportive, right?"

"No," he lies, far too late.

"Yeah," she says, piloting them around a truck, "I managed to get this way aaaall by myself."

* * *

"What, you seriously think _Ghostbusters_ is a bad movie?"

"Yeah."

They are almost back at the _Dusty Spur_ , twilight sky pinking in his rear-view mirror. She makes a disgruntled noise. "Go on then, enlighten me. What was wrong with _Ghostbusters_?"

"Well, for one, they wasted an FX budget by making it a comedy. Do you know how much that movie cost to make?"

"No idea."

"Thirty million. Thirty _million_. They could have had audiences pissing their pants."

"Okay, okay, I get it. You could have spent the budget better. But the _story_ —"

"What story?" He pulls to a stop at the front gates. "Seriously, why do the ghosts turn up? What even are the ghosts? Why possess Dana? And that's the other thing."

"What?"

"You've got Sigourney Weaver on board and you relegate her to window dressing? I mean c'mon. Audiences are ready, man. They can handle women fighting."

"So _we_ hope."

He waves this piece of humour aside. "She killed it in _Alien_. Much better movie."

"Mm, didn't she fight the alien in her underwear though?"

"Hey, I didn't say she shouldn't be _sexy_. Just that… um…" He's lost his thread slightly on that thought, earning himself a swat on the shoulder.

" _Gross_. Okay, I'm going to leave you in your happy place. Try not to fall out with anyone else this—"

"Sh-sh- do you hear that?"

They listen in the silence. A heated argument, one man and one woman shouting. The words are lost at this distance. Sam is good at telling the difference between the _fuck-you-asshole_ type of row he prefers, and the kind that tips into violence.

"Stay in the car," he says.

"Uh, what?" Ruth splutters. "Were we not _just_ talking about—?"

He doesn't hear how the sentence ends; he is out of the car and into the gathering gloom, as the unmistakable tinkle of shattering glass cuts the evening air.

The fracas is at Debbie's door. Sam isn't surprised. Keith would never, _ever_ raise his voice to Cherry like this, and who else could it be? That marshmallow idiot she somehow ended up married to. What's his name? Marv? Mark? He takes in the flushed babyish face, the wobbling gait. Shards of a dropped bourbon bottle glitter at his feet.

Lights are turning on around the motel, doors opening. "He is _my_ son," Mark sniffles. "You have no _right_ —"

"Trust me buddy," Sam cuts in loudly, stepping forward into the light. "You don't want to finish that sentence."

There is a moment of blinking stillness. "Who the fuckare you?" manages Mark.

"Name's Sam," he replies, taking in the circle of faces framed in doorways around the courtyard. "You done here?"

"Why, are you intending to throw me out?"

Mark steps in closer. He is taller than Sam, but so are a lot of men. He stares back coldly. "Well, yeah. You're causing a problem for my actors so I'd like you to go."

"Oh, your actors? This is your crazy circus, is it? You're the one that's letting my wife make a _mockery_ —!" Mark loses his words as the anger spills over. Sam expects a punch. Instead, Mark grabs for his shirt, like he wants to shake him. He isn't prepared for the hard shove in return, and stumbles backward.

"Go home, Mark."

For a moment, as Mark lumbers back upright, he thinks that will be the end of it. Until Mark meets his eyes, and Sam can see the red mist that has descended. "Oh, fuck," he says, under his breath.

Mark lunges. Sam twists, but he's far too slow these days, and they hit the ground hard. His glasses skitter away into the shadows. He scrambles up, knowing the game really _is_ over if they stay on the floor. People are shouting in the blurry haze around, but he can't afford to look away. Mark catches his jeans and tries to pull him back down. Sam wrenches around, trying to pull him back the other way — they're wrestling, he realises, oh the irony— catch and release and catch and _crunch_. Mark has landed a punch and there are lights winking on and off in his head, his ears are ringing, but it's all fine, fine; _good_ even. Because he's where Sam wants him. A second blow to his back. All the air is knocked out of lungs that aren't up to much in the first place, these days, but it's fine, _fine_ , fine. He lands the return punch, hard, right to the middle of Mark's chest. Mark gasps, steps back onto nothingness. His arms windmill hilariously but there's nothing to grab hold of. With an enormous _splash_ he topples back into the pool.

A second, ten. Expanding circles, bubbles. Mark does not surface. "Oh, _fuck_ ," Sam says again, starting to shrug off his leather jacket. It really is too much if he has to save the fucker from _drowning_ after all this—

Mark breaks the surface in an explosion of spray, as Sam suddenly becomes aware of blue flashing lights. "Oh, Jesus _Christ_ ," he manages, before he is on the ground once again.

* * *

" _Oh,_ honey _."_

 _His mother rushes to his side, taking a knee to peel away the ice pack from his swollen face, assess the damage. It makes him angry. A lot of things do these days. "Don't," he snaps, pulling his hand back, wincing away. "I'm not a baby."_

 _She flinches too, his words like a lash. He hates her for it; hates her for being so_ weak _, all the time, almost as much as he hates himself. "What happened?" she tries, a frightened whisper._

" _Sam was involved in another altercation with a student," says the Principal, coming out into the corridor from his office. "We're investigating the incident at the moment. Sam is… reluctant to talk to me about it. I suggest you talk at home. See if you can get the full story from him."_

" _O-okay," his mother manages._

" _He's suspended until Monday," continues the teacher, frowning. "If there's another incident…"_

 _His mother swallows, nods her acceptance of the unspoken threat. "I understand."_

Say it _, thinks Sam; he wants to_ scream _it. Wordless threats hang in the air around him all the time. Don't talk back, don't play that here. Eat your damn vegetables. Shut up Sylvia, or else. Or else, or else, or else._

 _Or else_ what _?_

 _He wants to call their bluff, all of them. The sneering bullies that shove him down school corridors and the bigger version—waiting toad-like their trailer—the one he still has to call_ Dad _—_

"Hey. De Niro."

Sam opens the one eye that responds, his left swollen shut. "What?"

The policeman outside the holding cell grins. "Time to go." He takes his time with the keys, eventually unlocking the door and ushering Sam out down the corridor. "Why so grumpy, De Niro?" he says, as they approach the custody desk.

"Why do you keep calling me that?" Sam snaps back. "De Niro's an actor. De _Palma's_ a director."

"De who?"

"De Palma. You know? _Carrie_? _Scarface_?"

"No, you just remind of De Niro, that's all. In that film by the Monty Python guy? You have the same mustache." He takes in Sam's look of muzzy incomprehension. "It just came out. _Brazil_. You should see it."

"Yeah," Sam says, shaking his head, "Hey, why don't I go right now?"

"There's no need to be sarcastic. That attitude won't help anyone."

"It's helping me," mutters Sam, but raises his hand in surrender. "I'm sorry, officer. It's just been a very long night and my face hurts."

"Yeah. You should definitely get that looked at."

He opens the door, and there in the horrible waiting room at the front of the station, is Debbie. At least as far as he can tell through the haze of myopia. "Hi," she says, with a little wave.

"Hi," he replies, trying to hide his surprise.

"You were expecting someone else." He's not sure if that's reflection on his poor acting skills or testament to her perception.

"Well, yeah. I mean, out of everyone… The woman whose husband just landed me in jail was not… not top of my list."

"Mark's not pressing charges."

"Not pressing _charges_?" he erupts. "What the _fuck_? He was the one who—"

"Hey!" The booking officer interjects. "Take it outside, De Niro. Unless you want to go back in?"

Sam bites his tongue rather than reply, stalking out into the night. Except it isn't, not anymore; dawn has been and gone while he's been doing something like sleep on the rough bench of the holding cell. He squints in the bright light.

"Ruth would have come," says Debbie, following. "Or Rhonda. But I asked them if I could instead." Her mouth twists, something like a smile, but cynical. "Also, they seemed to think they needed to hide your stash. In case the police came to investigate."

"Fuck." He runs his hands through his hair. It was sheer good luck his cigarettes and their accompanying cargo were still in the car when he decided to play white knight. "I hope they didn't flush it. That was expensive shit."

Debbie manages not to roll her eyes, but it looks like an effort. "My car's this way," she points.

He limps after her wordlessly, easing himself into the passenger seat. The empty baby seat in the back prompts his next question. "Where's the barnacle?"

"My Mom has him."

"He okay?"

She looks confused by this piece of minor consideration, in that marvellously _angry_ way she has. He's never met anyone that can do anger like Debbie. She wears it like armour, hammered into something beautiful and powerful. It's a rare talent, one he envies. "He's fine. Slept through everything." She purses her lips again. "Thanks for asking."

"My pleasure."

"Ha. Do you want me to drive you home or to the hospital?"

"Is it that bad?" He hasn't been in sight of mirror yet.

"It looks pretty bad," she hazards, "but if you feel okay…?"

"Home," he decides. He wants some real sleep, in a real bed, but before that and more than anything else he wants a drink.

They ride in silence, into the rush hour traffic. He lies back in the seat, flitting in and out of sleep as they stop-start through the jam. Debbie is a stalwart constant, a classical statue bought to life in the driver's seat. A missing muse, he decides; vengeful sister to those drippy daughters of Zeus that presided over less weighty things like poems and songs.

She glances over at him as they grind to a complete halt, and he can see compassion hiding under the guise of contempt. "You still want home?"

"Yeah," he croaks. "I'm just tired. Not great sleep in the cells."

"I bet." She taps her fingers on the steering wheel, debating her next move. "Why… why'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Fight?" she says, drawing out the f-sound. "A fist fight. With a man you've never actually met?"

"He was being an asshole."

"Right." She glances over again. "But that's not… I mean, there's a lot of assholes out there." Including himself, she doesn't need to add.

"What do you want me to say? He was bothering you. _All_ of you. He was aggressive and, and threatening—"

"So, you decided to be aggressive and threatening back?"

"No," he says. _Yes_ , he thinks. "I just asked him to leave. He was the one who got all _Karate Kid_ in my face."

She laughs at that mental image, which was his intent. "Thank you," she says, when she has control of herself.

"I'd say you're welcome but my face disagrees—"

"No, I… I mean." She sighs. "He was going to sue for full custody of Randy. And now he… well, he'll have less of a leg to stand on."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

He doesn't know what to say to that, but perhaps there's nothing he _can_ say. Instinctively he reaches out and pats her shoulder, awkward as hell. "I think you're doing a good job—" he tries.

"You don't have to… You don't have to lie to me," she cuts in. Not angry, just a cold statement of facts. Ahead the cars start to move again.

"I'm not lying. My parents divorced when I was ten. My Mom was… a mess." He's not sure where these words are coming from, or why.

"Mine too," she says quietly, looking just as perturbed at this turn of events as he does. "I didn't want that for Randy. Or for me."

He shrugs, wincing at the pain freighted by the movement. "Who does?"


End file.
